


bon sang ne peut mentir

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And angst, DEFINITELY BOOK VERSE, Gen, M/M, and it hurts, i mean you're gonna kick me at the end, it hurts bad y'all, it's okay i deserve it, okay now there's a lot of swearing, physical violence and a bit of swearing, please don't judge my fic by my shitty tagging, wait it's okay it got better, xox can we talk about how those tags are not supposed to be in alphabetical order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of soldiers break up one of the students’ rallies, and bully the people as they try to leave. Enjolras steps in to protect them — and someone else steps in to protect Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A nervous hush swept through the rallyists. 

It wasn’t the kind of quiet they were used to -- not the awed silence of a people enamoured, nor quiet excitement of the promise of the future. This wasn’t about tomorrow. This was about the present -- the here and now, and the dark kind of silence that accompanied fear. This was a lack of sound so pressing it became tangible -- like the cold, sinking into their bones. 

“Enjolras.” Combeferre gripped his arm. 

Soldiers had appeared at the far end of the street. 

The crowd stirred. One of the guardsmen’s horses whinnied, and the students -- too used to this to be truly hesitant -- leapt into action. Both leaders jumped down from the cart they’d been using as a stage. Combeferre joined Courfeyrac and Prouvaire as they shepherded the people towards the exit at the far end of the street. They worked as guides, supporting those who stumbled, ensuring that everyone could disperse as quickly as possible, and all the while whispering to each and every person they came across: “We’ll meet again. Two days from now. Bring your friends.”

Bring everybody that you can find. The revolution is coming. 

An old woman, half-blind but still sharp-eared, took Combeferre’s hand and held it tightly. She smiled at him with watery, enraptured eyes and whispered: “Bless you, citoyen. Bless you.” Combeferre led her to the nearest alley, and pointed her home.

Feuilly swept up the pamphlets they had brought with them and stuffed them into his vest. The National Guard didn’t need them, but France still might, and France’s people more so. Even Grantaire helped -- he stood in the thick of the crowd, pointing people in the right direction and hurrying them along. He’d only come to the stupid event to watch his friends make fools of themselves, but even his cynicism didn’t extend to watching soldiers batter innocent men. 

“Come along,” he instructed. “Better leave the basket, you can come back for it later. On your feet now. There you go.”

The old, the weary, and the destitute fled before the horses as the soldiers marched into the plaza. Enjolras threw himself between the front line and the stragglers, holding out his arms to serve as a human barricade. 

The infantry closed ranks and pushed closer. Their duty was to clear the plaza -- to scatter the rallyists who were making a bloody good effort to get out on their own, and if possible, to arrest the instigators. Almost everyone had run for it, but some hobbled along -- hobbled, because it was the best they could do with canes and limps and small children in tow. No one wanted to stay there, that much was obvious, but that was a humane sort of logic that didn’t matter to men with guns. 

One man, an older fellow whose bent back and crooked cane made it difficult for him to hurry across the cobblestones, lagged behind the others. He was out of breath before the soldiers marched up to him. 

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called from the opposite side of the street where the rest of the students had gathered. 

The old man stopped, putting one gnarled hand on his knee to hold himself up as he rested. Two infantrymen exchanged derisive smiles and halted on either side of him. 

He hadn’t even come to that street for the students’ rally. There was a little shop on the far side -- a sometimes-baker, sometimes-grocer, forever-friendly place run by a couple who sold the very best beef pies in Paris. He’d promised his wife that he would bring one home just in time for supper. Just in time, he joked as he left, because that’s how long it would take him to get to the Rue Vevain and back again. 

She had smiled, kissed him on his wrinkled cheek, and wished him well. 

The soldiers pushed him. One gripped a cudgel in his hand and prodded the old man in the side, taunting him as he stumbled. Their insults were repulsive, but these weren’t men who dreamed of the students’ Utopia -- their coarseness wasn’t surprising. They used the language of a dying era, because they weren’t aware of the new world dawning on the horizon. 

Enjolras stepped between them and the old man. He gently touched the man on the shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asked calmly. The old man nodded, but clung to his cane. He explained with wide eyes that he was only trying to reach that shop, just over there. 

“A likely story!” One of the soldiers sneered. He grabbed Enjolras by the arm. 

A dark, dangerous fire kindled in Enjolras’s chest. He lifted his chin slowly. “He’s an innocent man,” he told them. “Let him go.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

The mounted guards rode past them, into the centre of the plaza. Even the poverty-stricken people who had been there before the students came were exiled -- sent running like frightened rabbits into the darkest, dirtiest alleys to cower until night came and they could creep out again. 

The soldier with the cudgel placed the end of his baton in the middle of Enjolras’s chest.

“I think you’re both fucking traitors,” he spat. He tried to push Enjolras aside to get to the old man who sheltered behind him. 

Enjolras didn’t budge. He was frequently accused by some of being more marble than man -- and in that moment, he was. There was a fierce, unyielding glower on his stony face. 

“Enjolras!” His friends called out -- but their voices felt so distant now. There was an enthused humming in his ears that left no room for anything else. The steady drumming of his own heart had become his anthem. 

The soldier sneered and shoved him. Enjolras -- bristling with rage beneath that cold-blooded expression -- resisted. The soldier swore angrily and suddenly raised his cudgel. 

Enjolras lifted his arms to defend himself, but the blow never fell. A solid mass hurtled past him before the soldier could strike, catching the repugnant guardsman in the stomach and throwing him brutally to the ground. The second soldier jerked his hand back from Enjolras’s arm in shock. When he looked for his companion, he found the man lying on his back on the street, clutching his ribs. 

Grantaire kneeled over him, pummelling him mercilessly with vicious, practised punches to the abdomen. 

An astonished tremor surged through Enjolras as he caught sight of the determined fury on Grantaire’s face. 

Grantaire looked up abruptly. He was panting as he found Enjolras. “Get him out of here!” He shouted, kicking the second soldier’s feet out from under him. The scuffle caught the attention of the other infantry, and soldiers quickly levelled their guns. 

Enjolras grabbed the old man around the middle, half-pushing, half-carrying him to the side of the street where he could duck into the safety of the very shop that he’d come to visit. Courfeyrac and Jehan met them halfway. They each grabbed an arm, and with their help, the old man moved faster than he had in thirty years. 

He would report the whole, harrowing event to his wife that evening with wide, awestruck eyes. 

She would encourage him to not drink quite so much when he went out. 

Enjolras twisted free of the old man as soon as Courfeyrac and Jehan had him, launching himself back towards Grantaire and the fighting. Grantaire had assumed a boxer’s stance in the circle of soldiers, and in that moment it was easy to see the gymnast that he often drowned beneath a slobbering drunk. 

Grantaire dealt out fierce punches to left and right. If he could get his hands on a stick, the four soldiers he faced might have quickly gone the way of their brothers who cried and clutched at the cobblestones. 

But before Enjolras could step out from under the shadow of the shop’s awning, Combeferre grabbed him by the shoulders and violently hauled him backwards. They crashed into the front of the building so hard that the blow left Combeferre breathless, but he refused to let go. He locked his hands together and tightened his arms around Enjolras’s chest like a metal ring around a barrel. 

Half a second later, a sickening crack announced the end of the skirmish in the plaza. Grantaire collapsed first to his knees, and then slowly fell face down. 

Enjolras’s face went white with rage. 

Combeferre struggled to hold him back. He gripped Enjolras’s shirt and whispered hoarsely in his ear. “He’s fine, Enjolras! He’s not dead!”

Grantaire was not dead. He was unconscious. The stock of a rifle had caught him on the jaw, resulting in the nauseating sound that had carried across the street and now echoed in Enjolras’s head. Enjolras dug his fingers into Combeferre’s arm as the soldiers hoisted their friend up from the ground and hauled him away. 

“They’ll take him to prison--”

“We can get him out,” Combeferre reminded him fiercely. He called over his shoulder to Courfeyrac for help. 

Courfeyrac and Jehan quickly pulled the shop door open. They had taken shelter inside with the old man to hide from the soldiers. With a brawl happening in the street, every man not in uniform would be a target -- and every man wearing a tricolour cockade might be target practise. Although they were all willing and committed to die for France when their revolution came -- that skirmish was not it. 

Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras by the collar and helped Combeferre to drag him inside. Jehan, however, pulled the cockade from his lapel and snatched a wide-brimmed hat from a hook by the door. Someone had to follow the soldiers and learn which jail they would take their fallen comrade to. Out of everyone, Jehan looked the least like a revolutionary. Give him a bouquet of flowers, and he was a star-crossed, dewey-eyed schoolboy in search of his sweet, lost lover. 

Take away the bouquet, and he was for all intents and purposes the same thing -- but grief-stricken. 

Jehan slipped outside, and Courfeyrac shut the door. And Combeferre, finally letting go of Enjolras, slid down the length of it to the floor to catch his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, as twilight settled across the city, a balding man with red-rimmed eyes eerily similar to Grantaire’s walked into the police station on the Rue Montmarie. He wore a thick, clean coat that reeked of addiction and upper-class depravity. He even carried a cane, although it didn’t seem to be quite the right height for him. 

And when the police inspector and his staff asked, he unhappily explained that he’d come to fetch his brother -- that their mother was worried sick at the prospect of her precious baby boy (in reality a “foul, little vagabond”) sitting in prison, catching his death of cold. To the balding man it was no surprise that he’d wound up in such a state. His brother frequented the very worst kinds of meetings, and associated with obscene people. It served him right to spend the night, or several, in a jail cell -- but their mother wouldn’t let it stand. 

“His name?” The inspector had asked, even though he knew by rough description alone exactly which prisoner was the “belligerent wastrel” he wanted.

“Grantaire,” the balding man answered. 

Bahorel had told him to say ‘de Grantaire’ when he was inevitably asked for a name -- but the rest of the Amis had vetoed it on principle. Courfeyrac in particular, was vehemently against it. (“There’s no need to sacrifice dignity to spring a man from prison.”) Bossuet (for he was indeed the unfortunate Laigle de Meaux) didn’t care what he said, as long as he got in, got Grantaire, and got the hell out as quickly as possible. He had the worst luck with police stations -- in fairness, he had the worst luck with everything; he wasn’t keen on accidentally ending up behind bars again. 

He wouldn’t have come at all if there had been a better choice, even though the whole ruse had been his idea -- he could be surprisingly resourceful in a crisis.

Enjolras had been halfway out the door the moment Jehan returned with news of Grantaire, but a dozen hands stopped him. His charming good looks, golden hair, and righteous indignation weren’t forgettable -- he couldn’t be allowed to participate. Bossuet’s bald head and dry smile, however, were, and with a little smoke in his face to make his eyes water, he almost resembled the cynical drunk they sought to rescue. 

“You’re lucky he’s awake,” the inspector told him.

“With him as a brother, I’m never lucky,” Bossuet answered wryly. 

Grantaire stumbled out of his cell, clutching his face with one hand and the wall with the other. He had a black eye and a large, swollen lump on his jaw from the fight that afternoon. 

The dried blood, broken nose, and split lip had obviously come later. Bossuet’s hand tightened around the cane. He could only wonder if the added brutality had been delivered at the hands of the soldiers, or of the police -- or both. So much for the law. 

He paid three times what Combeferre had predicted they would need -- every plan that involved Bossuet came with consequences, after all -- and escorted his ‘brother’ out the door. A cab waited for them on the corner of the street.

Bossuet yanked off his coat and handed it to Grantaire as soon as they were safely inside. “You’re soaked through,” he said with surprise. 

Grantaire draped the long, heavy garment over himself -- it was easier than putting it on. If carriages on broken streets had been more stable, he’d have curled up on the cab floor underneath it and gone to sleep. As it was, he winced at every jolt. But it was still better than walking. 

“They dumped a bucket of river water on me,” he explained through swollen lips. “To wake me up.”

“And then beat you?”

“And then beat me,” Grantaire repeated. He’d have smiled if his battered face had allowed it. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Bossuet reached for the coat. Bahorel had given him a flask just before he’d left -- and judging by the emptiness of every pocket he checked, he’d somehow managed to leave it back at the café. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. 

Grantaire made a sound halfway between a laugh and a whimper. “No matter,” he answered, and passed out. 

The cab delivered them to the Café Musain. Bossuet woke Grantaire, but everything was a bit of a blur after that. Grantaire couldn't recall getting out of the carriage -- only that somehow he did. And somehow he found his way to the back room where the Amis met, and somehow he wound up in a chair with Joly doctoring his face, and somehow the flask that Bahorel had prepared for him made its way into his hand.

He was exceptionally grateful for the latter part, and the rest he chose not to protest. 

Bossuet hovered as Joly skilfully wiped blood away from Grantaire's nose. "It is broken," he explained, "but I think you'll be alright."

"My face disagrees with you," Grantaire answered. Bahorel chuckled. 

"Next time you'll bring a friend when you decide to fight the National Guard."

Grantaire opened his mouth, but Enjolras cut him off. "Next time he won't be there," their leader said sharply. Grantaire closed his mouth.

Until that moment, Enjolras had kept to the corner of the room. He'd stayed silent, and he'd stayed calm. 

With a single comment, his marble exterior shattered. 

He stomped over to Grantaire. Joly moved out the way very quickly, tripping backwards into Bossuet. By some small miracle, neither of them fell over -- but the other Amis didn't witness it. Everyone had their eyes on Enjolras. 

"What the hell were you thinking?" He shouted, leaning forward slightly. "You could have been shot!"

Jehan hid his face against Courfeyrac's shoulder. 

"This isn't a silly game, Grantaire! This isn't one of your boxing matches -- those were soldiers from the National Guard! They had guns! They might have killed you for your stupidity, and there's not a man here who would have blamed them!"

It wasn’t true. Every man there would have mourned Grantaire as the brother that Bossuet had rescued -- Enjolras most of all. They’d have taken to the streets with muskets and rifles and begun the revolution that very day, in his name. But men made of stone and fire often find certain sentiments harder to express than others, and Enjolras was no exception. 

“Are you so bloody arrogant that you think you’re invincible? Did the wine make that decision, or are you really that insane? Why did you even come in the first place? You don’t believe in our revolution. You believe in nothing!”

Grantaire smiled. 

Enjolras seethed. His face was so close to Grantaire’s that Grantaire could feel the heat from the fury in his eyes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged an apprehensive grimace. 

“What,” Enjolras repeated, punctuating every word, “were you thinking?”

Grantaire tipped his head to the side slightly, giving a brusque huff of laughter through his nose. “I don’t know,” he replied thickly. “Hmm, I think I want to get the shit kicked out of me by a couple of soldiers.”

“Four,” Jehan squeaked. 

Everyone but Grantaire and Enjolras glanced at him. 

Jehan hid behind Courfeyrac again. “I’m writing a ballad!” 

Enjolras flexed his fingers at his side. He couldn’t decide if he’d be happier wrapping them around Grantaire’s throat, or adding to his damaged face by breaking his nose a second time. 

Grantaire slowly breathed in. “Thank you,” he added, speaking to everyone even though he hadn’t taken his eyes off Enjolras. “To everyone who chipped in to get me out of there. I’m sorry that it cost you so much.” 

Was it his imagination, or did Enjolras blink? 

Bossuet quickly dug his fingers into his vest pocket as Combeferre slowly explained: "It was Enjolras, actually.” Bossuet took a small step forward and pushed a wallet into Enjolras’s hand. 

Grantaire didn’t even try to hide his surprise. 

“You? Why?” He asked. He sounded disbelieving because it seemed genuinely unbelievable -- but he hadn’t meant to come off as quite so sour. 

Enjolras still hadn’t looked away. 

“I can afford it,” he answered bluntly. That’s what he’d been telling himself all evening. “Why should anyone else have to pay for your mistakes?” Enjolras asked, straightening up at last. 

A disappointed cringe rippled through the others. Courfeyrac covered his mouth with his hand and looked up at the ceiling. Combeferre shook his head. 

Grantaire’s mouth hung open slightly. A blind nun wouldn’t have missed the pain in his expression -- and she would have known that it had nothing to do with his physical injuries. 

Enjolras stuck his wallet into his pocket and turned away. 

Grantaire stood up, swallowing back the dry lump in his throat and ignoring the ache in his entire body as he moved. He was still drenched, but it didn’t matter. “Is it so hard for you to think well of me?” He demanded. 

Enjolras stopped. 

Joly sat down very quickly. Bossuet reassuringly rubbed his shoulders. 

“Honestly, is it? Am I the dark stain in your life, even when I do good things for you? What’s the expression -- _bon sang ne peut mentir_? Good blood will out. Or is my blood not good enough for you?” He tore his wet, blood-stained vest off and threw it at the ground at Enjolras’s feet. “Perhaps there’s too much alcohol in it?”

“I get it,” Grantaire continued. “I’m the family dog. I’m prodigal! I waste everything, and I prefer women to your stupid, fucking war! Do you even know how to kiss someone, Enjolras? On your virgin pedestal, you think this is so easy -- being so perfect. So deific. But I tried to help your Utopia-- I fought for your fucking Utopia today, and it still isn’t enough for you!”

Enjolras raised his eyes from the vest to Grantaire’s face. The rest of him remained as immobile as ever. Everyone else was completely silent. 

“Well?”

They’d been through this a hundred times. But there were reasons that the hundred and first time could be no different than any other, and those reasons were rooted in who Enjolras and Grantaire were. 

The man of faith, and the non-believer were intrinsically opposite. 

“You don’t believe in what we’re fighting for,” Enjolras answered. Anyone in the room could have predicted what he was going to say down to the last syllable. 

Grantaire was just as reliable, but less obvious. He laughed -- a short, dry, and pained grunt of laughter accompanied by a disfigured smile. And then he picked up the flask Bahorel had given him, raised it to Enjolras -- “to you, Monsieur le Saint,” -- and drank.


	3. Chapter 3

As Grantaire drained the flask, Enjolras bowed his head. He spoke quietly, but everyone -- with the exception of Grantaire -- heard him. “Please leave,” he asked his friends.

They obeyed without question. 

Grantaire wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve as he finished, dropping the flask to the floor. It was then that he realised everyone else had fled. 

He and Enjolras were alone. 

Somehow it wasn’t quite the fairy tale he wanted. Having bodily given himself over to defend Enjolras, he didn’t think it really mattered if he admitted that now -- that all he wanted from the saint on his cloud was a single, bloody smile. There was honestly a time when he’d have settled for a pat on the head, and a ‘good dog,’ but even that seemed to be too much to ask from Enjolras. 

He grimaced. 

For once, Enjolras didn’t look at him when he spoke. “Sit down.”

Grantaire blinked. 

“Sit down,” Enjolras repeated. Was there kindness in his tone? Grantaire rolled his eyes. The very thought made him physically ill. But he sat, for lack of anything better to do. 

He dropped right to the floor, beside the flask, rather than taking a chair. Enjolras regarded him as a child, and it was only fitting that he should react like one. 

Enjolras moved nearer. Grantaire didn’t look up. He was exhausted. He ached. His throat burned from the alcohol that he’d drank far too quickly. It was the epitome of what what could only be described as a ‘shit day,’ and he only wanted it to end. 

Enjolras sat down in front of him, bringing a bowl of water, and the rag that Joly had been using to clean Grantaire’s face, to rest in his lap. Grantaire’s eyes widened. 

“Hold still,” Enjolras instructed. He dabbed the cloth in the water and reached out. 

Grantaire recoiled immediately. 

Enjolras frowned. 

“Just go home,” Grantaire told him. “You paid your due--” It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes “You--”

“Stop.”

Both men stared at each other. They both had clear, blue eyes, but it was remarkable how different they seemed -- even then. Grantaire’s were confused, and wounded. Enjolras’s were stormy -- and concerned. 

Grantaire moved his hands to his lap slowly. He was hunched over -- good posture was for saints, not cynics. 

Enjolras reached out with the cloth again. He moved slowly, but with the confidence of a man born to be in control. He didn’t have to know what he was doing -- the movements were in him, from the calm approach to the gentleness of his touch. Grantaire didn’t resist the second time. He closed his eyes, and Enjolras dabbed at his face. 

They didn’t speak until Enjolras had washed him clean. 

And Enjolras -- in a move so surprising that the other Amis would never have believed it -- spoke first. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For your help this afternoon. I doubt that man would have gotten away unharmed if not for you.”

Grantaire licked his swollen bottom lip. Everything throbbed a little less, which he knew was the alcohol’s doing -- but he almost felt sad for it. “And you,” he told Enjolras. 

Enjolras twisted the cloth in his hands, wringing the dirty water back into the bowl before he put both aside. “He’d have managed,” he answered somewhat dismissively. 

“No, I meant--” Grantaire’s mouth twitched. “You wouldn’t have gotten away unharmed either.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “I have bruises on my chest from Combeferre, actually.”

“May I see?” Grantaire asked -- and instantly regretted it. He closed his eyes quickly and shook his head. “Shit, I’m sorry. I--...” He exhaled sharply. “That drink went straight to my head.”

“Don’t they always?” Enjolras replied. 

Grantaire turned his head so he could stare at Enjolras through his unblackened eye. It was impossible for him to tell if Enjolras was being serious. Although, to be fair -- the prospect of Enjolras joking seemed too ludicrous to imagine. “Have you ever gotten drunk? Or even slightly tipsy?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Alcohol impairs judgement--” 

“Which is why people drink it,” Grantaire finished. “Not even once? I’ve seen you drink.”

“I’m French,” Enjolras answered, as though that was explanation enough. 

It was, incidentally. 

“But I don’t like the taste,” he added.

Grantaire held up a bruised hand and leaned back, closing his eyes again. “Monsieur le Saint, spare me.” He was teasing, but when he looked at Enjolras, he found anger staring back at him -- not mirth. 

Enjolras murmured: “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“And I wish you wouldn’t hate me,” Grantaire answered honestly. Enjolras looked genuinely taken aback, but Grantaire carried on. “Why bruises, by the way? The ones from Combeferre -- how did that happen?”

It took a moment for Enjolras to answer. For a man of conviction, being speechless -- even temporarily -- was similar to blushing. “He was holding me back,” Enjolras explained. “I tried to help you, in the plaza, but he wouldn’t let me. It was for the best, you were down within the minute.”

Grantaire looked stunned. Enjolras blinked. “You struggled so hard,” Grantaire clarified, “that Combeferre left bruises on your chest. I have to see it.”

Enjolras made a face, but Grantaire was completely serious -- and inebriated. He leaned forward and reached for the buttons on Enjolras’s vest, and Enjolras didn’t stop him.

To Enjolras, the gesture meant nothing. To Grantaire, it was the most confusing thing that had ever happened to him, and his impaired mind found Enolras’s lack of reluctance very difficult to digest. 

He fumbled more than once, but did manage to free every maddening button and only then did he realise that he’d hit a dead end, as Enjolras’s shirt could not be unbuttoned. 

Grantaire frowned. 

Enjolras complicity slid the single-breasted waistcoat from his shoulders, and pulled his shirt off. Only his black cravat still hung around his neck, but Enjolras held it to the side, rather than taking it off. Exactly as he’d said, blue and purple bruises darkened the middle of his chest. 

Grantaire stared. 

He rocked backwards slowly and tried to take a deep breath. He had two thoughts in that moment, which was something of an improvement on the average. First, he found it fascinating that skin so clearly made of some poetic allusion to a shiny, white rock could actually bruise. Second, he was floored by Enjolras’s temerity. Floored, he accepted, and enthused. 

And regrettably saddened as well. 

He’d had no aspirations to queerness that he could recall. Unlike Courfeyrac and Jehan -- and Joly and Bossuet -- he had always preferred women, and women alone. 

Until, that is, he had met Enjolras. 

Enjolras had a peculiar power over everyone. In Combeferre, he instilled the desire to do greatness; in Courfeyrac, the desire to do good. In Grantaire, Enjolras felt he could cultivate nothing, because there was nothing to be cultivated -- but he was wrong. There was a very deep, devoted love there -- and Enjolras had it wholly, whether he was aware of it or not. 

Grantaire had to physically resist the urge to lick his lips as he stared at those bruises. It was the second great battle he would fight in Enjolras’s name that day. 

He was far too familiar with lust to mistake what was happening -- but he was also painfully aware that it didn’t matter. His desire -- his warm, heartsick desire for that angelic face and those golden curls -- meant nothing because he alone felt its physical manifestations. He questioned, and rightfully so, if Enjolras was even aware that love had physical manifestations. 

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped. It was funny, in a dry, slightly bitter sense, that Enjolras could sit there, completely oblivious to the maelstrom of emotion going through his head. 

He exhaled through his nose in one quick huff. He was resolved. 

“Impressive,” he murmured, smiling. Enjolras made a face. “And I’m sorry.”

Enjolras met his eye in that characteristic way of his. Perhaps, Grantaire mused, that was how he ensnared so many people? With that bright, innocent blue gaze. “I’ll be fine by morning,” Enjolras responded, pulling his shirt back on. “You, however...”

“I’ll be fine,” Grantaire answered. 

“You’re injured from head to toe,” Enjolras told him. 

“I’ve had worse.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, but he didn’t doubt it. All the same -- “Come home with me,” he insisted. 

Grantaire dropped both hands to the floor very quickly to steady himself. The entire room felt like it had been turned on its side. Silently he damned Bahorel to hell for not giving him a drink that would hit him right in his morals. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. After a moment of doing an awkward trout impression, he croaked: “No.” 

And with that no, his resolve grew stronger. 

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated again -- more as a mantra to himself than as a reassurance to Enjolras. “My room is nearby.”

Enjolras shrugged on his vest, but left it unbuttoned. Grantaire’s good eye twitched. Luckily Enjolras couldn’t hear that unhappy voice screaming at him for his pathetic show of chivalry. He didn’t even fucking believe in chivalry! This was beyond asinine. 

“Let me walk with you, at least,” Enjolras advised -- because as every soul who had ever set foot in that back room knew, Enjolras’s advice was not to be refused. 

Grantaire consented with a nod. It would be a struggle, he knew, to stop himself from suggesting that Enjolras come upstairs. He would probably slap himself in the face once that naive but perfect man was out of sight, but it was better than the alternative. 

He might go to sleep cold, and in agony, but he would wake up with no regrets. He would wake up feeling happy with himself, and satisfied with his decisions -- a state of being he hadn’t become familiar with until Enjolras had stepped into his life. 

Funny, that.


End file.
